


Picturesque and Mythical

by Polly_Lynn



Series: TARDIS-Verse [19]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Family, Male-Female Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 19:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1829239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She wants something more than she's ever had. He does, too. But they can't go on like this, and that's something he should have said long before now. It's something he wants to say now, but he has no right to. He has no room to talk and he wants it." Set after Recoil (5 x 13); references Always (4 x 23) and After the Storm (5 x 1)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picturesque and Mythical

**Author's Note:**

> The fifteenth TARDIS-verse story, and another set in season 5. Title lifted from the Margaret Atwood poem "Siren Song."

* * *

He has no right to say anything. No room to talk at all, and that's part of the problem. A big part of the problem. Because they . . . . kind of skipped a bunch of parts along the way.

Not that he's complaining. He is NOT complaining about her soaked to the skin and burning up the air in his lungs. Burning his skin and everything between him and his front door. Burning herself into him at long last.

But they skipped over a lot, and after four years of going nowhere, he's for it. He's all for skipping ahead. For not looking back and building on everything they'd been working toward all that time, whether they admitted it or not. Whether they even knew it or not. But . . . _but._

He _wants_ the right to say something. Worse, he thinks he needs it. They both need it if this is going to work. If it's going to keep working.

Because it works now. Not just the parts he always knew would work. Although, yeah, those parts _work._ Everything is in working order there, and if she drives him into an early grave, he'll go gladly.

But it's more than that. Amazingly there _is_ more than that. A lot more. Because they _work._

There's this space in him that she just fills up and makes bigger at the same time. A space he didn't really know about. Or maybe he just hadn't thought about in a long time. Maybe it's someplace he'd given up on or closed off and now there she is. Filling it up and making it bigger.

He's not in the habit of regret. He has his moments. Long moments of blazing white hurt that invade and lash back out to wound. To damage. But time stretches out, and in the long run, he's not in the habit of regret.

It comes with a price, though. It's not a coincidence that the two women he's married are non-negotiably part of his ongoing life. It's not a coincidence that he's been in the habit of returning to the scene of the crime with both of them. In the habit of making the same mistakes all over again.

He'd rather savor than regret. He'd rather have fond memories, and that means skimming along the surface. It's a requirement. Not thinking too deeply and settling for instant gratification. Never really looking at the ways he went wrong and what they might have done differently. The price of fond memories is never asking too much. It's being bulletproof.

But he doesn't want that with her. With her, he wants the scars. He wears them proudly, because she makes him . . . ambitious. With himself. With them.

It's the same for her. He knows that. He knows because she told him as much before it was a question of them. In her mind, anyway. In his mind it's always been a question of them, even if he's had it the wrong way around. Half a dozen different wrong ways over the years.

But she's told him that it's the same for her. An admission in an unguarded moment that he used against her when he was desperate. _For_ her, or so he told himself.

She's told him that she doesn't want to hide. That she doesn't want to keep one foot out the door, and however close they've come to oblivion when he's told that truth right back to her—the times he's called her out on what she says and who she says it to—she's come out and said that she wants more than that.

And now she shows him. She shows him that she wants more than what they've been. Than what either one of them has been able to be with anyone else before. She shows him that they're not just partners with benefits. That they _work._

She shows him when he runs on the way he always has and she pulls up short. She shows him that he can hurt her. When he takes her for granted. When he makes fun and it's important to her. When it's a real piece of her that matters and he's worrying at it out of habit. She shows him that he can hurt her and asks him not to because she wants more, too.

She shows him when he pushes and she withdraws and she comes back. She comes back. When she takes these firm, deliberate steps, however small, toward him. Toward what they can be.

She wants something more than she's ever had. He does, too. But they can't go on like this, and that's something he should have said long before now. It's something he wants to say now, but he has no right to. He has no room to talk and he wants it.

* * *

She's surfacing, not drowning. She tells herself that. It's Burke's suggestion. Reframing, he calls it, and she scoffs—oh, does she scoff—but she tells herself anyway, and it works. She's surfacing.

She has all kinds of things she says to herself. A cluttered mess of excuses she's hoarded over the years. That she's not in a good place. That no one, not even her dad, can really understand. That this is who she is. Who she will be until she dies. That this is what one night in a filthy alley made her and no one understands the weight. No one knows what it's like to drown like this.

But she sees them. She sees the things she tells herself for what they are now. Self-fulfilling prophecies. Because how _could_ anyone understand. How could they when she wraps herself around them? How could they see them when she keeps them out of sight and sinks gladly like a stone? When she drowns alone.

So she lets go of them. Now and then, at least, she lets go and she surfaces. And some of them come up with her. Some of the things she says to herself surface with her because they're true. And they're not true.

It's been days. It turns the corner into weeks tonight, and she's _not_ in a good place. How could she be? There's a man walking free. Not walking. Climbing a ladder made of her mother's bones and she could have stopped him. She could have ended it all.

She could have ended everything. Kept her mouth shut and stood by. She did and almost did. Once, twice, and nearly a third time. And then she found the person she is—she _really_ is, even though he's drawing breath, even though he's free—in an instant.

But it doesn't change what she might have done. What she _did_ do. One sin buried inside another. And it's such an old thing. Such an old pattern that she feels the shelves of the evidence room digging into her back. Montgomery staring down at her. Royce standing by and watching her spin out. It's all so familiar. She's furious with it and then she's tired. Then she feels like she's drowning all over again.

She's alone tonight. She went home without him, and he didn't push. She thinks she should be grateful, but she's not. She's disappointed.

She's disappointed that it's still her instinct. To turn her face away and drown alone.

She's disappointed that it's still his instinct to let her.

But it's not. It's not his instinct at all. He dies a little every time she does it—every time she shuts down and walls herself off all over again—and she's way past the point of pretending she doesn't see that. Way past the point when she _can_ pretend. He dies a little and lets her do it anyway, and she's disappointed.

She doesn't know how to do this. She never has, and he's always been the one to do it for her. For them. To open a dozen doors and hope she'll step through one of them. It's how they do this. How they've always done this.

But it's going on weeks now, and he hasn't said anything. He's been there. Every day and every night before now, he's been there. A steady hand at her back. Watching with her while Bracken climbed a little higher. A confident nod when she says she'll get him. The right way, because that's who she is. In the end, anyway. She'll get him.

He's been there. Quieter than usual. Maybe quieter. Letting her lead, and here they are, marching in place. And they haven't talked about it. Two minutes in the break room and then the next thing. The next crisis. And they haven't talked about it. What she did. What she didn't do. Who she is any more.

She expected it tonight for some reason. The seventh day and the weight of that. The weight of it between them getting heavier and heavier. So she'd said she was going, and she expected him to ask her not to. She'd thought he would. That he'd cajole and she'd give in. That he'd . . . plead.

It leaves a bad taste her mouth. _Plead_. Acrid, familiar, and clinging. Clinging to her tongue because it's true. She expected him to plead with her, and he didn't. He hasn't.

He let her go. He let it all go. Her confession. The lie. He let it all go and now she's drowning alone.

* * *

It's not getting any easier. Not alone with it like this. When he's with her, the scales are tipped. When he's with her and she's with him—really with him—it just seems like a handful of moments. Nothing at all compared with quiet musings in the dark. The way she likes to drift off to sleep to the sound of his voice, but she can never let him have the last word.

It's nothing to the serious lines of her face when she calls him on something. When she holds herself accountable. When she works at this. At herself and at them. And she does. She _works_ at it, and a handful of moments seems like nothing when he's with her.

But it's always waiting. Whenever he's alone. Whenever he's not with her, it's there. Time passes and he tries to work through it in his head. He tries to put it aside. To put every instance aside. Big and small and in between.

He can explain them away. Each and every one, if he's determined and he pulls them apart. He can blame it on time and his own ridiculous exuberance and the fact that she's human. She's human and that's so easy to forget. Every time he's near her—every time he can touch her—it's so easy to forget.

One by one, he can explain them away, but together, there they are. A tidy pile. A thing that gnaws at him and stops his mouth, because he has no room to talk. A pattern. _A pattern._

He wants to get past it, because what else can he do?

He could say it. Tell her. Lay it out there between them and say that he wants more. That forgiveness is one thing and this is something else. It's a pattern and he can't live with it. They can't live with it.

It's an excuse. Saying he has no room to talk is just an excuse.

He's afraid. Afraid she'll remember. As if she's forgotten. As if she could _ever_ forget the way he lied to her for the better part of a year. Manipulated her and took away her choices. She's hasn't forgotten. She can't have, and no wonder the lies come easily. No wonder it's a pattern.

But she forgave him, right? They forgave each other. Near death clarity and the two of them diving in.

He thinks about opening his eyes to her face on the pillow next to his. Soft and full of sleep and the way her hand always starts out tucked against her own chest and creeps out to find some part of him—hip, shoulder, his own fingers—before morning. Long before morning.

He thinks about waking up alone. About finding her in that kitchen. Stainless steel, hard and bright and loud. The way she turned to him. Spine straight and jaw set and the giddy triumph in her eyes. A chance. She'd gone into battle without him and that's what she'd won for them that day. A chance.

She must have forgiven him.

But they've never talked about it, and he's afraid. Afraid that if he opens that door, everything will come tumbling out and overwhelm them. That they'll be buried under the weight of it, and he won't give her up.

But that's what he's doing. Every day he's afraid. Every time he doesn't say anything. He's giving up on her. On them and a chance to be more.

He has to say something. He wants to say something.

But he doesn't know how to start.

* * *

She sleeps a while. It surprises her. She claws her way up through the dream. Block capitals on a lined sheet, fire licking at the edges. The explosion. Silent, this time, and far away. She's far away and at peace and that's what terrifies her. That fierce, satisfied calm. The certainty that it has nothing to do with her and she feels absolutely free. That's what has her kicking for the surface and opens her eyes wide in surprise.

She reaches for her phone on the bedside table and she sinks again. It's nothing in her hand. A tiny sea of unbroken black. She sinks.

They always talk when they spend the night apart. Almost always. He'll text and she'll call to chide him for it. Just a few minutes sometimes. And sometimes she rolls her eyes at the teenage drama of it all as an hour turns into two and she really misses having something to coil and uncoil around one finger while they flirt and tease and can't quite seem to hang up.

But tonight there's nothing. Unbroken black and what did she expect? _She expected him to plead._

She taps the button and the time stares back at her. A new day crept in while she slept and now she'll measure it all in weeks. And she expected him to plead.

It's not new. The thought isn't new. It's what pushed her through the door alone, shaking free of his fingers when they lingered at the collar of her coat. It's what made her sure he wouldn't let her go. Not really. Made her sure he'd call. That he wouldn't let days turn into weeks without a word. Without a single word.

Time passes and the phone goes dark again. Her head feels heavy. Everything feels heavy and she's sinking.

She hears her own voice—her own question— _then what does that make me?_

The dream comes to her again. The seductive peace of it shivers over her. All over her and something hard and tight coils just under her ribs. She looks at the phone in her hand again. Unbroken black and nothing but the sound of her own voice clanging in her head and she can't stand it any more.

She doesn't know what she's doing. She doesn't know what she'll say or where she'll say it, but she can't stand it any more.

She unlocks the phone and her fingers stumble over it. Half a dozen times. A dozen. She makes herself take a deep breath. She closes her eyes and it's unbroken black and then she's surfacing.

The light of the little screen falls on her face and she's surfacing. She types it out. Easy this time. Easy and right, whatever comes next.

_Time out._

* * *

He been everywhere tonight. Upstairs and down like an oversized Goldilocks, perching on every bed, every chair for as long as stillness will let him. It's not long. Never long.

What if this is the only way they work? Omission and the kind of forgiveness that means never mentioning it again. Crisis after crisis and skipping past any kind of agreement to do this—really do this—together.

It spins up inside him. Worry and an unfamiliar sense of defeat. Hopelessness.

This isn't him. In four years—almost five—this has never been him. In all the times he had no reason at all to hope, he's hung on and showed up and come back. He's been ambitious.

But tonight he wonders if this is all he'll ever have of her. Controlled doses, smaller and smaller all the time, and silence when it really matters. Excision.

He tells himself it's enough for him. That anything of her is enough. That it's all he deserves, because he has no room to talk.

He tells himself it's true. That she's the one who deserves more. Who wants more and would have it if the world weren't so fucking broken. He tells himself it's true and hates himself for the lie.

Because he's not the man he was a year ago. Two years ago with Gina again. Before that. Hooking up with Meredith or whomever. He's greedy now and can't remember what it's like to want so little.

He settles at the window in his office for a minute. His head feels tight and loud and he presses his forehead to the cool glass. The traffic glides by in the street below and he tells himself he'll say something tomorrow. That it's too late tonight and she wanted to be alone.

That tomorrow is soon enough to face the end.

The thought drops in his lap and he goes cold.

He wants to stop. He wants everything to stop, but one thought tumbles out after the other and he's buried. There's no light and air and his skin feels unfamiliar. This isn't him.

It's not panic. He'd welcome that. Wild and careening and slightly unreal.

But this is weight. It's hopelessness. It's the certainty that it's not just a handful of moments.

It's the way they are. The way they've come to be. Because they skipped ahead and he doesn't say anything because he tells himself he has no room to talk.

It's the way they are and he can't live with it. He can't just live with it and never say anything, even if it means she remembers and she never forgave him. If she can't forgive him. He can't live with it, even if it means the end.

This isn't him. He tells himself that over and over. That he doesn't think like this. Even in the dead of night, he doesn't think like this. But it has a hold on him and he's stuck. Fixed on a single point and it _hurts._

And then something saves him. Light he hardly even notices at first. Just a sliver barely bleeding through a blanket he tossed on to one of the arm chairs in his wanderings. He pushes himself off the wall. Makes his feet work and goes after it. That little sliver of light.

It's his phone. The ringer is off and when did he even do that? The screen goes dark just as he fishes the phone out and he eagerly thumbs it on again. It lights up and it's beautiful and the weight lifts. Just like that. He snaps back into himself. All of himself. Just like that.

_Time out._

* * *

It takes him a while to respond. She's a block away from her apartment. Two and nothing. _Nothing._

It's not like him and she worries. She worries that it's even worse than she thought. That he was dead asleep with nothing on his mind. That he's given up and they're coasting and it will never be any more than this. That she'll always drown alone. That he'll let her drown alone. She hates herself a little more for thinking of it like that.

Three blocks now and her feet are still moving. Something fierce grabs her. Ducks her head and hunches her shoulders into the wind and she tells herself that if it comes to it, she'll wind up on his doorstep and she doesn't care how it looks.

Four blocks, and her phone lights up. She stumbles and wonders if she would have. If she's finally there and she really would have planted her feet and huffed and puffed if it came to that. If she would have fought for more. But she'll never know, because he'll always come. If she asks, he'll always come and she doesn't know how she forgets that over and over.

She fires back the address. She picks a diner. It's an old one for them. Reliable and familiar and she's close already. It should feel right, but she lingers on the street when she gets there. Her hand reaches for the door and falls away. Once and again and again, it falls away.

This makes her nervous every time. Doing this. Every single time her heart hammers and her blood runs hot and everything that crowds her tongue feels silly and terrifying. Every single time, she's nervous, but this feels different. This feels wrong.

She paces the length of the storefront. Streetlamp to streetlamp and back again. She's not cold, she just needs something to do and she can't make herself go in. It feels wrong.

Something catches her ear and her head snaps up. A group of young guys rounds the corner. Five or six and they're loud and swaggering and she knows—she knows when they're still a quarter block away—this is all going to hell. That they'll hassle her. That she won't be able to get inside the diner fast enough. That it's all going to go wrong.

She squares her shoulders and puts her back to the brick. She braces and lifts her chin. She raises her eyes and looks for something in the distance to fix on and he's there all of a sudden.

She can't see his face. Not from this far away, but those are the solid lines of his shoulders punching a black shape through the glare of the streetlight and it's like a movie. He cuts across the street. Dodges between cars and she knows the exact moment that he sees her. He grins wide and his eyebrows draw together and he shakes his head, all in a moment.

The group is already ramping up. They slow to an exaggerated stroll and their voices are chaos. They're talking about her. Edging in and closing ranks. Cutting her off from the street.

But Castle gets to her five steps before them. Somehow he's there five steps before them and he doesn't even know—doesn't even see anyone but her.

Her heart thumps in her chest and she can't take her eyes off him. She thinks of alleys and dumb ideas and the way his fingers slide perfectly over her skin. He's there and he kisses her like it's new. Like it's the first time and the thousandth time. Like he's sure of every single thing about her. He turns with her into the shadows of the doorway and kisses her and kisses her.

The world goes on. There's a car horn and catcalls from the guys taking their sweet time passing by. Inside someone slams a tub full of dishes through the kitchen door. The world goes on, but it might as well not for all it matters. He kisses her.

He breaks off with a groan. All of a sudden, he breaks off and he's leaning into her. Clouds of his breath break apart around her face, his hands falling on her and rising again, and she waits. She waits for him to say something. For one of them to say something and her knees are weak and she wants to crawl into him, so it'll have to be him.

"Hi," he says, finally.

It's quiet and shy and it pulls a laugh from her. A laugh, but it dies on her lips because he's still looking at her like that. Like he can't see anything but her and she's quiet, too, then.

"Thank you." He skims his fingers over her cheek like an apology. Like he doesn't think it's enough that he's here in the middle of the night, kissing her like that. Looking at her like that. "I'm glad. I . . . thank you . . . I know you wanted . . . you wanted to be alone . . ."

"I didn't," she snaps and hears what it sounds like right after it leaves her mouth. She raises up on her toes and kisses him, because apparently that's what they're doing in the middle of the street tonight. She's fine with that. Right now, she's fine with it. "I didn't want to be alone and I'm sorry. _I'm sorry,_ Castle."

He stumbles back. Keeps a hold of her and his shoulders hit brick. One hand tangles in her hair and the other works under her collar. Dives under her scarf and finds skin. It lights her up and they're in serious trouble all of a sudden. She presses herself into him and decides she has never hated anything as much as she hates winter clothing and the fact that they are seven blocks from anywhere plausible with a door and flat surfaces.

He breaks away again, but it doesn't quite take. He keeps coming back to kiss her forehead, her cheeks, the hollow of her throat, and that's dangerous. "Are you . . . hungry?"

The last word seems to happen without his say so. His eyes go wide and hers go narrow and dangerous. He grabs her shoulders and sets her in one corner of the doorway. He retreats to the other corner and wags a finger at her. She wills herself not to laugh, but he looks about 14 and it's not easy.

"Food. Do you need food? Or coffee? Or can we . . ." He _really_ looks 14 now. Worried and heartsore and awkward. "Can we walk?"

She steps over to him and slips her arm through his. She tugs him toward the street, but he stills her with a hand on her shoulder. He tips his forehead against hers and stills her.

"Thanks," he whispers. "Thank you."

She nods. Angles her lips up and kisses him once. "C'mon, Castle. Let's walk."

* * *

 

They cover a block in silence. Her heart settles down. They fall into step like always and she centers herself on that. The solidity of him at her side and the way they move together.

They turn at the corner. It takes them head on into the wind. He holds on to her elbow and wraps an arm around her shoulder. She turns her face into the warmth of his shoulder and holds that fast, too.

She thinks about last year. An absurd collection of buttons. Stolen kisses in parks. On doorsteps. All the nights she weighed every touch. How much she could risk. How much was fair to either of them. To both of them. She thinks about every agonizing moment and holds fast to the simple fact that this is where they are now. His arm around her and her body against his. This is how far they've come.

He tilts his face down to hers. He's about to say something, but he does a double take when he sees her smile. "What?"

"This feels good," she says simply and lets her head be heavy on her shoulder.

"Yeah." He smiles back.

It's warm and certain, but serious, too. She takes a long breath and he feels it. The way it straightens her spine and he runs a strong hand down her arm. Keeps her close and steady. Keeps them in step.

She nods against his shoulder and he gets it. Nods back. This is what they came here for and they're both done putting it off.

He takes a breath of his own, and it calms her, somehow, even though she knows what's next.

"So," he says. "Topic?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Drowning."

* * *

She tells the story inside out. Disjointed moments and doubling back. It's not like her. He expected a timeline stretching from then to now. Fact and theory, but that's not how she tells it at all. It's not like her, and he hurts for her. He hurts for the way she's come undone.

He hurts for the weight of another world on her shoulders. For seven days and nights alone with that, because the moment—that first moment with all its crushing weight of possibility—is real for her in a way it's not for him. The ashes of the letter and the casualties piling up around her. McManus and Melanie Rogers' family. Any version of herself she recognizes or wants to own.

_Him._

She doesn't say it, but she chokes on the memory. On his words. _You really are remarkable, you know that?_

That hurts, too. Realization that the lie is bigger than he thought it was. A reflex, but a choice, too. Omission and commission. It's bigger than he let himself realize, and it hurts in all kinds of ways.

He stops her, though. He knows that it hurts. _He_ hurts. He owns the feeling and holds on to it for later. But for all of that, in the moment, he stops her. There's something he has to give her if he can. Something maybe only he can give her and maybe that's how he starts.

He sits her down on a cold, uncomfortable wall with wrought iron at their backs and makes her look at him. She's a wreck. Controlled, tight, and bleak, like she's waiting on a death sentence. Maybe she is. Maybe they both have been this last week. That hurts, too, but he has to give this to her if he can.

"No," he says. It's first thing he's said beyond _Maybe_ and _Kate,_ chiding or proud or reassuring. Placeholders. But the _No_ has weight.

She doesn't say anything. She's worn out with it. With the story spilling out this way. Through her, not from her, and she doesn't say anything.

"No," he says again. Surer this time. It hurts. Everything hurts and he's angry and afraid. And none of that can touch the way he knows her. The way he sees her, clear and true and human. He brushes the hair from her eyes. "There was never a moment when you would have done it. Not a second, Kate."

She turns her face away from his. Seeks the shadows and doesn't say anything.

He takes her hand and presses his lips against her palm. _It hurts_.

"I know you don't believe me," he says. Low and quiet, but it cuts through the city noise. His eyes drop to the pavement. It's harder than he thought it would be. Harder even than he thought, but this is how he starts. He pulls her hand inside his coat. Uncurls their fingers and lays her palm over his heart. "I know you don't . . . trust me. With you. With yourself."

She sobs. A soundless, painful thing that travels through her whole body. Through the whole of both of them. He smooths his free hand over her hair and rests his forehead against hers.

"I know you don't trust me," he says again, because that's the worst of it. "But I _know_ you. And I wish I could show you that. Who you are. Who I know you are. Here." His hand is heavy on top of hers and his heart pounds underneath. "Because there was _never_ a second when you would have done it."

A long time passes in a hopeless slide of tears from them both. She says his name and the word _No_ over and over, and that has weight, too. He won't agree. He can't, but he whispers her name. That it's ok. That it'll be ok, but he doesn't think he believes it.

She takes the story up again after a while. After she's just too exhausted for anything but words.

She keeps her hand inside his coat. Her fingers rise and fall with his heartbeat and maybe he believes. Maybe he believes a little, because she's trying. She's trying to see what he sees. The version of her he keeps there. Even while she tells him about it—holding paper to flame and letting another world unfold in her mind—she's trying to see it. And he wants to believe.

She went to Burke. He tightens his arm around her at that. Stops her again and tells her that he's glad. That he's thankful she could. And it's true. He _is_ glad. Thankful. He's proud that she's come this far and even now—even with all this—she's steady enough to ask for help.

He's glad.

But it hurts, too, and he hates that it does. He hates that about himself. The petulant, jealous part of him that resents it. Resents that she trusts this stranger with herself. A stranger and not him.

It _hurts._

* * *

She wants to tell him _No._ That he's wrong. That she trusts him. There's no one she trusts more. With herself. Against herself. The worst parts of herself. It's true. There is no one— _no one_ —she trusts more, but that's not the same thing. It's not the same thing, and all she has is his name and the word. _No._

He's breaking. She can feel him coming to pieces wrapped around her even while he tells her it's ok. It's not ok. She's drowning and he's drowning with her like she always knew he would.

She expects him to be angry, and he is. Tight lines around his mouth. Around his eyes, though they can't quite erase the kindness. Not all of it, but he's angry.

She expects him to be hurt, too, and he is. Slumped shoulders and defeat bowing his head against hers. Taking his words from him. From them.

She expects him to go. It shocks her white inside when she realizes she's waiting for it. For his footsteps retreating down the street. She expects it, but he holds her hand over his heart and there's certainty she doesn't deserve. Determination to make her believe in this version of her. And she wants to believe.

She wants to believe, but it feels like weakness. More weight pulling her down and taking him with her.

She hears her own voice and hardly knows what she's saying. She tells him about Burke and a little more of the light goes out of him. The light goes out of him, and what he has left, he spends on her. He tells her he's glad. Grateful. That she did the right thing.

It does something to her. That ridiculous generosity. Patience and unshaking faith she doesn't deserve. It drags over her insides and pulls something desperate from her. "You don't know, Castle. You don't _know._ "

"You don't want me to know." His voice sounds strange. Cold and locked down. "You sure as hell don't want me to know."

He pulls her hand away from his chest. Deposits it in her lap. Stark, absolute separation that makes her gasp. "Castle . . ."

"I was still there."

It's matter of fact. A simple, obvious statement of truth, but it tugs at everything in her mind and the shape of the story appears. The way things happened stretched out in order. From lie to lie, it stretches out, and it's terrible.

He's not touching her. Not anywhere, even though he hasn't moved away. He's not touching her, but his eyes are on hers, and she knows he won't go on without her.

"What?" It's faint. Stupid and hardly a contribution, but he nods. Like he respects it. Respects her even if he doesn't like her very much right now. There's something perversely satisfying about it. It feels like movement. Finally like movement.

"When you found the letter. The match. I was still there."

Her eyes widen, and she wonders why she's surprised. How she could possibly be surprised that he would know. That he could have known if he'd let himself. If he weren't such a trusting fool when it comes to her.

She nods. Owns the lie and watches him die a little more. He was hoping. Even now, he was hoping.

"You were there." She says it because she owes him the words, too, and if it's low—if she can hardly hear it herself—it's clear at least. Her voice doesn't waver.

His eyes drop and she hates to see it. Hurt washing back in where anger propped him up for a moment. Propped them both up and moved them forward.

"I was tired," he says like it's an explanation. Then everything tightens. His mouth is a hard, straight line and it's more than that. An accusation. "You told me to go."

"But you knew." She hears herself say it, though she doesn't know why. She doesn't know what she means by it. Maybe nothing. Maybe she just wonders. "You could have known."

He shrugs. He knew. He could have known. He's not denying that, and she wonders how.

It's an awful moment. _So_ awful, but there's something underneath. A moment inside that holds her fast. It thrills her and tugs at the corners of her mouth and makes her heart beat faster, because it's familiar.

She wonders and she wants him to make his case. She wants him to lay out the evidence—the case he could have made against her right there and then. She wants to know how it is that he always knows her.

"How?"

It startles him. A single word after such a long silence. He looks up at her, unguarded. He's miserable. _Miserable._ She aches, but something pushes her on. The moments come together and it's not just curiosity. It's not just wondering. She remembers the feeling of his heart beating beneath her palm and it matters. It matters how he knows her.

She asks again. "How did you know?"

His hand stretches out toward her. He hardly seems to notice until his finger is brushing down her sternum. Until the gesture is finished and his hand falls away and he's looking at it like it belongs to someone else. Someone who lets himself know.

"You reach for it," he says finally. "Your mother's ring. Even when you're not wearing it, you reach for it."

Her own hand follows the recent path of his. Repeats the gestures and feels the familiarity of it. The truth. She leans in suddenly. Anchors her palm at the corner of his jaw and kisses him quickly in thanks. For what, she's not sure, but it's thanks nonetheless.

His hand covers hers and she expects him to peel it away. To drop it back in her lap and put distance between them again. But he holds it there and his breath hitches. He struggles with himself a minute. Closes his eyes and the words come. "Did you think I'd stop you? Is that why . . . "

He trails off and she's blank with surprise. Her thumb sweeps along his chin like she's asking him to wait. _Wait._ But she's blank. She doesn't have an answer and he knows.

He does pull her hand away, then. Brushes his lips over the backs of her fingers, like he's sorry. Like _he_ has something to be sorry for, but he pulls her hand away and there's nothing but space between them.

"Castle, I don't know." She says it finally because she has to say something, but it only makes it worse. He bows under the weight of it and she doesn't understand. She'd give anything to take the words back, but he turns his face away from the light and she doesn't understand.

"I thought maybe . . . because of what I did. With Smith. Maybe you thought I'd try to stop you." It's like she's not even there. Like he's talking to himself and she can hardly make sense of it.

He looks up at her, then. Fixes her with a stare all of a sudden and she feels caught.

"Do you forgive me, Kate?" His voice is even, but he's jumpy. His knee jogs and he wraps one hand around the wrought iron behind him like he's trying to keep still.

She feels blank again. Empty and at a loss. Like it's a conversation from another planet. She feels blank, but words crowd into her mouth and spill out. Loud and angry and she wonders who they belong to. " _You_ didn't trust me. You didn't trust me with _me_."

He jerks upright. He looks just as surprised as she feels. "Should I have?"

"You had no _right!"_ She's furious. It rises up through her, unmistakable, but alien. Like someone else's rage.

"I didn't," he says quickly. A slant of light lands on his face and there's a spark of something hopeful. "I had no right, but I didn't know what else to do, Kate. It was the wrong thing, but I didn't know what else to do."

He catches her by the arms, but she struggles. He jerks back immediately. Shows his hands with a stricken look. The symbolism is too much, and he crumples in on himself.

She goes after him. Launches herself at him like she can't get her hands on enough of him at once. She tugs at his hair, his clothes. "You had no right. You didn't _trust_ me."

"I didn't." He repeats it, over and over. He fends her off. Keeps her from sending them both to the ground or slamming back into the fence, but he won't fight her. "I didn't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Kate."

The apology is a like a match to everything in her. It all flares up and sweeps out of her at once—anger, energy, and words. She goes still against him. Heavy and worn out. She's worn out and he holds her up.

"It wasn't that, Castle." She says it as soon as she has the breath for it. As soon as the sure feeling of his hands on her gives her back enough breath. "It wasn't Smith or last year or anything you did."

"Ok." It's all that comes out, and she feels what it costs him to say that little. Feels his shoulders tense and his mouth open and close against her neck as he swallows whatever it is he really wants to say. "Ok."

"I don't even know . . ." She shakes her head where it rests on his shoulder. The rough cloth of his coat rasps over her cheek and the scent of him washes over her. "I don't even know why . . . I just put it back in the envelope. I don't even know why."

"Like the first time you went after Bracken." He stills as soon as he says it. His hands are in fists like he'd call the words back if he could. But then he tightens his arms around her. Goes on, as if he's made a decision. As if he's all in. "It didn't even occur to you."

She chokes out something. A sob or a laugh or an apology. She's not even sure. She hadn't thought of it. This isn't the first time. This isn't even close to the first time. Easy lies, big and small. She hadn't thought how fucking typical it really is.

"I don't want you to drown." It's all she can think to say. "I don't want you to drown with me."

"I'm not, Kate." He pulls back to look at her. "I'm not drowning. _You're_ not drowning."

She meets his eyes. "How do you know?"

"Trust me." He kisses her. Laughs into her mouth and whispers, "Trust me, Kate. We're better than this. We can be better than this."

He kisses her like he can make her believe.

She kisses him back. Lays her hand over his heart and kisses him back.

She wants to believe.

  



End file.
